We hustled out, the squad close behind. The crowd outside was even bigger now, reporters shoving mics in our faces, cops setting up a perimeter, Maple playing victim at the top of the stairs. He spotted me, and for the first time, I saw the mask drop. Just for a second, his face went flat, cold, utterly inhuman. He knew he’d lost the room, and he hated it.
Vin shoved me onto my bike, then kicked his own to life. The whole squad rolled out in formation, engines drowning out the sirens, and we peeled away from the church like the hounds of hell were on our tail.
I didn’t look back, but I felt Darla’s eyes on me the whole way.
We regrouped at the old car wash, breathless and battered. Red dabbed at my split lip with a bottle of cheap bourbon. “You got fucked up, pretty boy.”
I shrugged, the pain secondary to the rush of what we’d done. “Worth it.”
Vin slapped me on the back, not gently. “You made the news. That’s what matters.”
I sank to the pavement, head spinning, and watched the sunrise through one swollen eye. For the first time in months, I felt something like hope. Not for me, but for her. For Darla, who’d stood her ground when every instinct said to run.
I pulled the ring from my neck, turned it over in my fingers, and wondered what she was thinking right now. If she still wanted out, or if she’d decided her cage was safer than the world outside.
Either way, I was coming for her.
Darla
I sat in my father’s office, hands folded in my lap, forcing my breath to slow. Outside was chaos—sirens wailing, shouting, the scraping of broken pews being dragged out of the sanctuary. Inside, it was just me and Maple, my dad, the door locked, the blinds drawn.
He paced the width of the room, stopping every so often to glare at me. No pretense now—no “my precious daughter” smile. He looked at me like a problem he hadn’t solved yet.
“Who is he to you?” he asked again, voice low, dangerous in its quiet.
I didn’t answer. I stared at the grain in the desktop, tracing its whorls with my eyes, refusing to give him what he wanted.
He slammed a fist on the desk—the sound sharp and final. “Don’t lie to me, Darla. I’ve seen the way you look at him. Is he—have you—” He spat the words he couldn’t say: “You’re my daughter. You’re not supposed to be… polluted.”
I felt a cold wash over me. Not fear, but something sharper—rage, maybe. For years, I’d let him dictate every second of my life: where to go, what to wear, who to trust. Now the leash was slipping, and he knew it.
He leaned in and grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise. “Is he using you to get to me?”
I met his eyes, steady. “No, Dad. He doesn’t care about you at all.”
It was a lie, but it landed. Dad recoiled, the blow to his pride more painful than any fist. He let go, and I cradled my arm, the skin already red and throbbing.
Down the hall, church staff moved like ghosts—voices hushed, shock rippling through the community. Deacons clustered together, clutching flyers, heads bowed in disbelief. A few women tended battered security men. Children cried in the Sunday school room, confused by the violence but not surprised.
Dad straightened, his mask sliding back into place. “I won’t have this, Darla. I won’t let you shame me or this church.” He stepped back, smoothing his tie in deliberate motions. “From now on, you stay in this office until I say otherwise. You will not see him. You will not disgrace your mother’s memory.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but his glare shut me up. “It’s for your own good,” he said—the oldest lie in the world.
He turned away, busying himself with paperwork as if that could undo the morning’s disaster. I sat numb, feeling the pulse of his grip radiate up my arm.
After a while, he left, the lock clicking behind him. I waited until his footsteps faded, then reached under my dress, my fingers finding the chain. The ring was hot against my chest, burning like a warning.
I held it tight, closed my eyes, and tried to remember Axel’s voice—the way he’d said my name on the overlook. I tried to remember what it felt like to want something so badly you didn’t care what it cost.
On the other side of the wall, Dad fielded calls—police, reporters, the bishop. He was spinning the story already, painting the Bastards as thugs and himself as the martyr. But the evidence was out there, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone called bullshit.
I imagined Axel, face bruised but smiling, riding off into the distance, and made a promise to myself: I’d get out. One way or another.
I slipped the ring back under my collar, wiped tears from my cheeks, and waited for my chance.
Axel
The sun set slow that night, turning the sky blood-orange behind the shattered windows of Fable Christian Church. I sat on the hood of the van, watching the world go purple, a six-pack at my side and a thousand plans buzzing in my brain.
